[ Leaving the colosseum brings Maine into an environment just as unfamiliar as the arena. Which is weird, if he thinks about it. Aren't dreams supposed to be built from memories? Something about unconsciously processing shit?
The big man grunts in annoyance — and fuck, it sounds all wrong. Raw and strained and strangely wet. He swallows, like that will clear it up. Fix whatever's wrong. Make him sound normal, and rid him of the discomfort wrapped tight around his throat.
(He tries not to think about what's going on outside of this dream. Tries not to think about what they're doing to his neck. Tries not to think about surgery and the needles that always go with it.)
Motion catches his eye, then. Grip tightening on the Brute Shot, he turns to face it—
And instantly, he relaxes. Even from a distance, he knows the man approaching him. Knows that he's the very opposite of a threat. Not because of his ability in combat, but because of who he is.
Wash. Maine's best friend.
The big man huffs and raises his free hand to gesture to himself: a silent mix of "obviously" and "who else?" Then he starts forward, intending to meet Wash halfway.
It doesn't yet register that Wash is deliberately showing his empty hands. Nor is Maine close enough to see that Wash doesn't look like he should; that the rookie is much older than Maine remembers. Blame it on a preoccupied mind. ]
no subject
The big man grunts in annoyance — and fuck, it sounds all wrong. Raw and strained and strangely wet. He swallows, like that will clear it up. Fix whatever's wrong. Make him sound normal, and rid him of the discomfort wrapped tight around his throat.
(He tries not to think about what's going on outside of this dream. Tries not to think about what they're doing to his neck. Tries not to think about surgery and the needles that always go with it.)
Motion catches his eye, then. Grip tightening on the Brute Shot, he turns to face it—
And instantly, he relaxes. Even from a distance, he knows the man approaching him. Knows that he's the very opposite of a threat. Not because of his ability in combat, but because of who he is.
Wash. Maine's best friend.
The big man huffs and raises his free hand to gesture to himself: a silent mix of "obviously" and "who else?" Then he starts forward, intending to meet Wash halfway.
It doesn't yet register that Wash is deliberately showing his empty hands. Nor is Maine close enough to see that Wash doesn't look like he should; that the rookie is much older than Maine remembers. Blame it on a preoccupied mind. ]